“Idiots,” Havoc mutters, spitting into the dirt. “Leaving the girls unguarded to chase a ghost.”
Saint slams a mag into his rifle. “Then let’s give them a nightmare.”
We roll out before dawn breaks, two vans and three bikes. Ghost rides point, silent and cold, his back like steel. I ride behind him, every bump of the road vibrating through my bones, tension wound so tight I think it might snap.
The Wolves keep their compound tucked behind an abandoned lumberyard on the edge of a ravine. Fenced. Gated. Remote enough that no one hears the screams.
I know this place.
I’ve seen it before. Never went inside. Never had to. But I know the stench of it. I know the eyes of the men who run it.
We ditch the vans half a mile out. Walk the rest.
The forest closes in around us. Wet. Heavy. No birds. No rustle of wind. Just a silence so thick it feels like it’s watching us.
My boots move over the wet ground without sound, my Glock warm in my hand. I’ve got a knife strapped to my thigh and an extra mag clipped to my vest. But I don’t plan on needing it. I plan on making every bullet count.
We reach the edge of the clearing. Saint pulls out binoculars and scans the yard.
“Two guards at the gate,” he murmurs. “One smoking, one pacing. No movement in the watchtower.”
“They’ve got three trailers in the back, right?” I ask, voice low.
“Yeah. The cages are in the far one. If they kept the same setup.”
I glance at Ghost. “How do you want to play it?”
“Quiet,” he says. “Fast. Take the gate. Sweep the trailers. In and out before they know what hit them.”
Havoc checks his gun. “No survivors. If they’re part of this, they die.”
We move in pairs. Me and Ghost take the left side. Havoc and Saint go right. Blade is on guard.
The Wolves never see us coming.
The first one drops before he can even finish his drag. Silenced shot to the temple. Ghost doesn’t flinch. Just keeps moving. The second starts to turn, mouth open to shout, but I’m already on him. One arm around his neck, the other driving my blade under his ribs. He gurgles, twitches, then slumps.
We haul the bodies behind the gate shack.
Saint waves us forward.
The yard smells like rust and piss and sweat. Like rot. Like everything good in the world has been scraped away. We pass crates stacked with illegal parts, a busted bike in pieces, and a line of heavy-duty chains bolted to the ground.
The trailer in the back is padlocked.
I nod at Ghost. He raises his boot and kicks the door in.
It crashes open, slamming into metal with a crack. Inside, the light is dim. Smells worse than the yard.
And then I hear it.
A whimper. Broken.
“Clear left,” Havoc says, sweeping the first room.
I move forward, gun up.
The cage is in the far corner, steel bars welded into the trailer frame. Four girls inside. One huddled, two limp, one pressed against the gate like she’s been waiting her whole life for someone to show.
